


Between the Lines

by LeapAngstily



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Babysitters, Alternate Universe - Writing & Publishing, Explicit Sexual Content, Extramarital Affairs, Implied/Referenced Sexual Harassment, Infidelity, M/M, PWP - Porn with Peerlo, Workplace bullying (past)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-24
Updated: 2014-07-24
Packaged: 2018-02-10 05:56:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2013630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeapAngstily/pseuds/LeapAngstily
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU. Riccardo gets a dream job as a live-in babysitter for a renowned novelist’s children. Little does he know he will end up in the middle of a crumbling marriage, with a not-so-little fault of his own – a professional jackpot turned into a personal disaster.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Between the Lines

**Author's Note:**

> So I realized that while I’ve written these two having an affair many times before, I’ve never actually focused on the secrecy or the outside consequences of the cheating. Mix that with a silly family drama series I was watching a few days ago and a pile of [photos](http://media3.acmilan.com/uploads/photogallery/images/649/hockey9.jpg) of [Monto](http://instagram.com/p/nTpM1oyG_l/) with [children](https://pbs.twimg.com/media/Brogs5UIAAAdui0.jpg:large), and we’ve got a pretty little babysitter AU ready to be written.
> 
> I’ve tweaked the ages a bit, because I just couldn’t imagine novelist!Pirlo getting married – or at least having children – quite as young as footballer!Pirlo did. Not to mention I needed the kids to be young enough to need a babysitter at the time of this story, and it just didn’t seem plausible for Andrea to have his big break in his twenties.
> 
> In effect, I’ve pushed Andrea’s birth year back five years (to 1974), while keeping the other dates (married in 2001, Niccolò born in 2003, Angela in 2006) intact. This story is set in 2009, which makes Andrea 35, Riccardo 24 (based on his real age), Niccolò 6, and Angela 3 years old. ~~Don’t even ask how long it took me to calculate their ages!~~

“So you used to work at a nursery school. Would you care to tell me why you quit?”  
  
The blonde woman is regarding Riccardo with curious eyes, and Riccardo has to shift in the plush armchair, feeling uncomfortable under the constant scrutiny. He had known this topic would come up, had even prepared a proper answer for it, but suddenly his well-practiced words abandon him.  
  
“It’s complicated,” – no shit Sherlock, who would give up a fulltime job without a multitude of reasons, especially at a time when the economy is quickly going downhill – “Being the only man in the female-dominated workplace wasn’t always— easy? Especially for a young man straight out of the university.”  
  
He could go into a long tirade of how the older ladies at the nursery school did not take him seriously even once during the year he had spent there, laughing behind his back, making underhanded comments about his sexuality right at his face.  
  
He could also talk about how that single mother ten years his senior kept making passes at him whenever she dropped off or picked up her son.  
  
Riccardo could say so much, but he doubts Mrs Pirlo is asking for a whole story of his miserable first experience as a proper working adult, so he forces a polite smile on his face and finally gives the answer that he already ran past his parents after handing in his resignation.  
  
“And the public preschool system wasn’t really for me – too impersonal, too little time for each individual child. I’d really prefer a job where I can adjust my approach according to every kid’s personal needs.”  
  
Mrs Pirlo is nodding with an accepting smile, and Riccardo can breathe more easily again.  
  
Riccardo knows she has paid a lot of attention to her children’s education from the very young age – he has read every magazine interview he could get his hands on while preparing for this meeting, making sure he knew exactly what to say. Just enough to leave a good impression but not to sound desperate or fake.  
  
“Quite honestly, I was really impressed with your application even before meeting you, Riccardo,” Mrs Pirlo admits, closing her notebook carefully, “Most of the applicants were pubescent girls just wishing to meet my husband. It was a relief to see someone with proper qualifications and understanding of the job among those letters.”  
  
Andrea Pirlo, one of the biggest new names in the world of fantasy novels, his name on everyone’s lips, his works being translated to numerous languages, rumours of a Hollywood film adaptation intensifying by the day.  
  
Riccardo has never even opened any of his books, not even out of curiosity, which is not really a surprise considering they are primarily aimed at women in their late teens and early adulthood.  
  
“I’m thrilled to be considered for this job,” Riccardo admits, slowly relaxing in the armchair as Mrs Pirlo puts her notebook away completely, “Of course, meeting you and your husband is a great honour as well, but my priority is to always do my work well.”  
  
“I’m happy to hear that,” Mrs Pirlo answers with a warm smile, standing up, urging Riccardo to do the same, “How soon would you be able to start? I’m returning to work as soon as next week, but Andrea’s mother has promised to look after the kids if the babysitter isn’t available by then.”  
  
Riccardo is practically gaping at her, having expected the generic  _we will be in contact_  at best, “So, I get the job? For real?”  
  
“Yes, Riccardo, we’d be happy to have you,” Mrs Pirlo is obviously holding back her laughter. She had probably planned to surprise him from the start, “If you’re still interested, of course.”  
  
“I am, thank you Mrs Pirlo,” Riccardo lets out a relieved laugh, shaking Mrs Pirlo’s offered hand enthusiastically, “I can start whenever you need me to, I have no other obligations whatsoever.”  
  
“Please, call me Deborah,” the woman smiles at his excitement, “How about Sunday afternoon, then? You’ll have enough time to get used to the surroundings and meet the kids before I leave them at your care on Monday.”  
  
It is truly a dream come true for Riccardo, who has lost count on how many application letters he has written by this point, looking for a way to get out of his parents’ house, out of Caravaggio, where he had to return after his last job became too hard to handle.  
  
  
  
“You’ll have your own entrance through the backdoor,” Deborah’s voice carries through the open window into Andrea’s study as she shows the new babysitter around the garden, “You’re of course free to come and go as you like when you’re not working. Just remember to be mindful of the paparazzi outside the premises – you never know what they might—”  
  
The voice fades as Deborah leads her companion through the backdoor and into the small one-room apartment attached to the main house, originally built for the servants. Andrea remembers hiding in there from his parents when he was a kid, back when the house belonged to his grandmother.  
  
He tries to shake off the memories and focus on writing again.  
  
Andrea’s agent has been at his back almost on a daily basis lately, reminding him that they need to get the next part of his series out for the Christmas market – of course, Christmas is still more than half a year away, but Andrea has given up on reminding him of that.  
  
Truth to be told, Andrea would much rather stick a finger at the fangirls and tell them to find a new story to obsess over. That first book was supposed to be a standalone, something to get him into the market. Andrea had never expected it to sell as well as it eventually did.  
  
He cannot concentrate, the petty words on his computer screen blending together until the only thing he sees is unintelligible mess. He can feel the beginnings of a headache pounding at his skull.  
  
Andrea can hear Deborah’s voice from inside the house now, getting closer and closer to Andrea’s study, “You’re expected to dine with the kids only when I’m not around, but feel free to join us for dinner whenever you feel like it.”  
  
The answer is too quiet for Andrea to hear, softly spoken words nothing more than a gentle hum compared to his wife’s sharp voice.  
  
“Andrea’s home most of the time, but you don’t need to mind him,” Deborah continues, and now Andrea is certain they are walking towards his study which is the last door in the corridor, “He’s so busy with the new book he rarely comes out for anything other than food or sleep anymore. I doubt the kids’ll even recognize him by the time that blasted thing is published.”  
  
“Way to make the poor boy hate me before even introducing us, Deb,” Andrea retorts as he pushes the door open, facing Deborah and the babysitter with a carefully neutral face, doing his best to ignore the dull ache behind his eyeballs that makes focusing his gaze unnecessarily painful.  
  
“There you are, dear!” Deborah smiles at him, pulling the boy along with her until they are at the door, “Andrea, this is Riccardo. He’ll be taking care of the kids while I’m working.”  
  
Andrea still does not know what has possessed Deborah, who after over six years of staying at home with the children suddenly decided she wanted to get back to the working life.  
  
The sudden opening at Andrea’s father’s company might have had something to do with it – the old man always knew how to keep Andrea tied to the family, even if his years-long struggle to get out of the corporate world has finally paid off.  
  
“It’s an honour to finally meet you, Mr Pirlo,” the boy, Riccardo, says softly, meeting Andrea’s eyes and offering his hand almost hesitantly. His light blue eyes remind Andrea of the heroine of his new book.  
  
“Just Andrea,” he corrects Riccardo with a forced smile, shaking his hand – Riccardo’s hold is firm, and Andrea holds his hand for a second longer than necessary, studying his reactions – “The pleasure’s all mine, I’m sure.”  
  
There is a soft blush on Riccardo’s cheeks as he pulls his hand away, but he still smiles at Andrea, pushing a stray strand of hair behind his ear with an embarrassed laugh, “I’ve got lots to learn here, but I’ll try not to disturb your work unless absolutely necessary.”  
  
Riccardo is cute, Andrea concludes. Maybe in his early twenties – twenty-four, he suddenly remembers Deborah saying after the interviews – a bit shy but that is probably down to the nerves.  
  
“No, by all means, don’t hesitate to come to me if there’s anything you need,” Andrea assures him with a smile that is a bit more genuine than the last one, “It’ll be nice to know the children are in good hands.”  
  
Andrea closes himself back into the study after exchanging a few more pleasantries, while Deborah whisks Riccardo off to meet the children and Andrea’s mother, who had come to visit just for the day to allow Deborah time to fuss over her new employee.  
  
He stares at the document on his screen for a while longer.  
  
Why did he think it was a good idea to make his heroine blonde, again? It would be the most obvious, most boring choice of all. Maybe he should make her a brunette instead, with pale skin and unruly curls – something enticing but not so stereotypically beautiful.  
  
He spends the next two hours editing the existing parts of the manuscript, and when his agent calls him later that evening, he actually feels accomplished despite not having finished a page of new text.  
  
Unfortunately his agent does not agree with the sentiment.  
  
  
  
“ _‘Someone's been eating my porridge and they ate it all up!’ cried the Baby bear._ ”  
  
Riccardo switches into a high-pitched voice as he imitates the surprised little bear, pointing at the picture of an empty porridge bowl to draw Angela’s attention to it, “You think someone’s eaten your porridge too? Should we go check?”  
  
“No!” the little girl in his lap protests with a giggle, turning the page and looking up at Riccardo expectantly.  
  
“You sure? Maybe daddy got hungry and ate it?” Riccardo asks amusedly, but goes back to reading nonetheless, lowering his voice into an angry growl of the Papa bear.  
  
It has been almost two weeks since he moved into this mansion half an hour’s drive from Milan, and so far he has enjoyed his new job immensely.  
  
Mornings are usually busy, dressing and feeding the kids together with Deborah before dropping Niccolò off to preschool if Deborah is too busy with work to do it.  
  
His days are spent together with Angela, usually playing outside, maybe taking a walk, until it is time for lunch, followed by Angela’s naptime.  
  
In the afternoon he picks up Niccolò from preschool and helps him with his homework – if there is any – while making Angela play some easy educational games on the other side of the table.  
  
Usually Deborah is back by the dinner time, releasing him from duty for the night, but Riccardo has gotten into habit of spending time with the kids in the evenings as well, allowing Deborah a bit of time for herself every now and then. What else is he supposed to do with his time, anyways?  
  
Today is a bit different from their usual routine because it is raining outside, so they had to come up with things to do inside: first they had played with Angela’s dolls, setting up a tea party, before settling down on the living room couch with a small pile of books on the coffee table.  
  
“ _—Goldilocks ran down the stairs, opened the door, and ran away into the forest. And she never returned to the home of the three bears._  The end,” Riccardo concludes, closing the book and looking at Angela, “I think now’s a good time for that porridge, huh?”  
  
“Can I help with that?” the raspy voice from the living room door startles Riccardo – he probably would have jumped up from the couch was it not for the child in his lap.  
  
He has seen Andrea only a few times after that first meeting, always just in passing before the author disappears back into his study. Most of the time, Riccardo all but forgets that Angela and Niccolò have a father in the first place.  
  
“Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you,” Andrea offers Riccardo an unsure smile as Angela jumps out of his lap and toddles to her father happily, “I didn’t wanna interrupt the story time, so I waited by the door.”  
  
“No, it’s okay,” Riccardo finally finds his voice again, and he stands up and follows Angela to the door, “I was just a bit surprised, I guess?”  
  
“Didn’t think I came out of my study during the daytime? That I’m nocturnal like my characters?” Andrea teases him, his eyes twinkling, and then he picks up Angela who squeals happily, “So what did I hear about this porridge? Daddy’s so hungry, you better be careful or I’m not gonna leave anything for you.”  
  
Riccardo feels a blush rising on his cheeks as he follows Andrea into the kitchen. So he had been standing there for quite some time, listening to Riccardo’s reading, “You should’ve just come in, I’m sure Angela would’ve loved it if you finished the story for her.”  
  
“But you did it so well,” Andrea retorts easily as he sets Angela down at the small kitchen table – the dining room is just next door, but feeding Angela is not worth making a mess there – and moves to warm up the porridge from the fridge.  
  
The housekeeper slash cook is only paid to prepare dinner, so Angela’s lunch and snacks are usually either premade or something simple that does not require actual cooking.  
  
Riccardo sits down across from Angela, watching as Andrea sets down the bowl for her and offers her a spoon to eat with, reminding her to blow on the food before every spoonful, talking to her in soft voice as she eats the porridge.  
  
Obviously he knows how to handle his 3-year-old despite Deborah’s complaints that he does not get involved often enough.  
  
“She’s being awfully obedient today,” Riccardo notes as Angela finishes off her lunch without complaining even once, “Maybe she’s trying to show off for you?”  
  
“Or maybe she just likes me better,” Andrea shrugs the comment off with a laugh, picking his daughter up again, “Now it’s nappy time, young lady. Would you like daddy to read you a story, too?”  
  
Riccardo is left alone in the kitchen, with no actual reason to follow Andrea around anymore. He will be fine with Angela, so Riccardo might as well take a break until she wakes up from the nap.  
  
He picks up the empty bowl – it is the first time Angela has finished all of her lunch during these two weeks – and rinses off the remains of porridge before leaving it in the sink to be washed later.  
  
He is in the middle of leafing through the day’s newspaper when Andrea comes back, flashing a crooked smile at Riccardo, “She fell asleep right away, didn’t even get halfway through the book.”  
  
Riccardo returns the smile shyly but does not say a word – what is he supposed to say, they do not even know each other – turning the page to find the sports news, pretending to read the football results from last weekend.  
  
Riccardo does not know what it is in Andrea that makes him feel so uncomfortable – like he is just a silly kid pretending to be a grown man – when he has no such problems around Deborah. It cannot be because Andrea is famous, because Riccardo has never paid any attention to him before getting this job.  
  
“Aren’t you eating anything?” Andrea asks as he opens the fridge and takes out a carton of apple juice, taking a sip straight from it.  
  
Like this he does not seem any different from regular people – no, he  _is_  a regular person – nothing like the object of teenage girls’ daydreams he has been made out to be.  
  
“I usually just fix myself a sandwich or something,” Riccardo answers with a shrug, keeping his eyes fixed on the paper in front of him, trying to appear casual, like he did not just study the way Andrea’s Adam’s apple bobbed while he swallowed.  
  
“Should I cook something for us, then? It’s not something I usually have time for, but I’m suffering from a bit of a writer’s block today so taking my mind off writing might be for the best.”  
  
“You don’t have to,” Riccardo protests immediately, standing up and walking over to the fridge, “I’ll just grab something easy and go back to my room, maybe take a nap myself.”  
  
“It’s no trouble,” Andrea insists, moving to reach over Riccardo’s shoulder to put the juice back where he took it, “And you don’t need to be so careful with me, I don’t bite.”  
  
He is smirking – just a small quirk of lips – when Riccardo turns to look at him hesitantly, and Riccardo could swear the author is flirting with him.  
  
But it cannot be: Andrea and Deborah Pirlo are  _the_  ideal couple, celebrated on women’s magazines on a monthly basis for their deep and understanding relationship that has lasted even Andrea’s sudden rise to fame.  
  
“It’s really alright,” Riccardo assures him again, taking a small plastic container with last night’s leftovers from the fridge, “I’m not used to eating that much during the day anyways.”  
  
Andrea is still staring at him when Riccardo glances at him again, and it makes his constant blush brighten immediately. Definitely flirting. Riccardo is so fired if Deborah ever finds out.  
  
“You must’ve been really popular at your last workplace,” Andrea says nonchalantly, like it was everyday he had conversations like this, “With a pretty face like yours, I’m sure the single moms were going crazy for you.”  
  
Riccardo’s blush is brightening by the second, and the mention of the unwarranted attention he received back in his old job does not help in the least. He closes the fridge and tries to move away, but Andrea blocks his escape by sidestepping into his way.  
  
“So they did come on to you,” Andrea’s voice is full of realization, the earlier teasing turning into genuine interest, “Was that why you had to quit? Got too involved with one of them?”  
  
Riccardo does not know what to say, his heartbeat getting erratic under the scrutinizing gaze, his breath stuck in his throat.  
  
“No, that’s not it, is it?” Andrea muses aloud, speaking under his breath, the tip of his tongue darting between his lips momentarily, “You weren’t interested. They were preying on you, fresh meat, someone maybe even copped a feel…”  
  
A sharp gasp escapes Riccardo’s lips as Andrea touches his face, caressing his jaw line, a glazed look in his eyes.  
  
“This— This is getting really inappropriate, Mr Pirlo,” he finally manages to croak out, his voice trembling from, what? Fear? Surprise? _Arousal?_  
  
Andrea snaps out of his reverie immediately, taking a step back from Riccardo, allowing him to breathe more freely, “I’m sorry, I got carried away – mixing up my writing with reality. But that’s no excuse, of course. I apologize for distressing you.”  
  
“No, it’s fine,” Riccardo mumbles – although it is not fine, not even close, his pulse only slowly returning back to normal – “I was just surprised, is all.”  
  
Andrea apologizes again before excusing himself and returning back to his study, his writer’s block obviously forgotten just like that.  
  
The box of leftovers falls from his hands with a loud clatter the moment Andrea is out of the kitchen, but Riccardo does not realize the mess on the floor before he can finally hear the door to the study closing upstairs.  
  
  
  
“It’s really different from all your other books, isn’t it?” Andrea’s editor, Alessandro Nesta, comments airily, waving around the printed version of the first five chapters of the new novel, “More mature themes. You sure it’s gonna work with the audience?”  
  
“I write softcore porn for teenagers,” Andrea grumbles with a shrug of one shoulder, “I doubt a little reminder that not all sexual interaction’s good or acceptable is gonna crumble their world view.”  
  
“Romantic horror fantasy with an erotic undertone, if you don’t mind,” Sandro recites from memory, because obviously he still has trouble believing Andrea can actually be tactful during his interviews regardless of what he says in private, “And your publisher’s not gonna be interested in the audience’s world views – they just wanna know if it’ll sell.”  
  
“Don’t worry, Sandro,” Andrea assures his long-time friend with a pat on the shoulder, “This one’s gonna sell no matter what I write. And if they hate it – at least I’ll get out of writing more of this shit, right?”  
  
“You’re impossible. Someone might think you’re actually doing something you hate instead of fulfilling a childhood dream,” Sandro sighs in feigned exasperation, but sets the papers down on Andrea’s desk nonetheless, “Just think it over. I’m behind you if you wanna go with this, but I’m not sure the others will be.”  
  
Andrea follows Sandro out to the yard, where Riccardo is playing football with Niccolò, rushing over to Angela between every few kicks to push her on the small swings Andrea had set up for Niccolò some five years ago.  
  
The small yellow ball flies to the stone paving just as Sandro steps out, and the editor picks it up and hands it back to Riccardo who has run over to them, hurriedly apologizing for his misplaced kick – it was actually Niccolò’s, but Andrea decides not to comment on the matter.  
  
Riccardo eyes dart towards Andrea only momentarily before he turns around and returns to Niccolò after apologizing to Sandro one more time.  
  
Sandro looks after him curiously before turning to Andrea, sudden realization lighting up his face, “Your  _Nina_? You’re seriously basing your heroine on your male babysitter?”  
  
“Only looks-wise,” Andrea lies fluently, not even blinking an eye as he ushers Sandro towards his car waiting by the gates, “He just happened to be there, nothing more to it. Stop it with those dirty thoughts right now!”  
  
“You’re the one who said it, not me,” Sandro hums amusedly, looking over his shoulder to get a better look at Riccardo who is juggling the ball with his left foot much to Niccolò’s amazement, “Not that I care what you do. Just make sure the press won’t get a sniff of it, okay?”  
  
“Stop it, I said!” Andrea huffs, opening the car door so that Sandro can climb inside, “And not a word about this to anyone, okay? It’d just start another useless rumour mill. You know how much Deb hates it when they write about our private lives.”  
  
“My lips are sealed,” Sandro assures him, but his knowing smirk reveals he is not buying a word Andrea is saying.  
  
Andrea cannot blame him – he would not believe himself, either.  
  
There is just something about Riccardo – something about his carefully guarded front and those huge blue eyes that cannot hide a thing – that makes Andrea want to find out more about him.  
  
That something got Andrea into trouble once already, and he doubts Riccardo would take it too kindly if he slipped up again. Andrea had been lucky Riccardo did not go straight to Deborah after that episode in the kitchen a few weeks ago, even if it was probably to protect his own job more than anything.  
  
Andrea has not dared to approach Riccardo again after that first time, only exchanging greetings and maybe a few words when they happen to be in the same room. Mostly he has taken to hiding in his study, though, drowning himself into his writing, the new novel finally taking shape.  
  
“Why didn’t uncle Sandro stay to play?” Niccolò sprints over to Andrea as Sandro drives away, disappointment shining from his face.  
  
“Sandro’s a bit busy with work at the moment,” Andrea tries to explain apologetically, and Niccolò does not push the subject – he is probably too used to hearing the ‘daddy’s too busy to come out and play today’ excuses to even question them anymore.  
  
Andrea feels a twinge of guilt in his chest, because he knows he has been abandoning his duties as a father far too much lately.  
  
“Should I come play with you instead?” he suggests, ruffling Niccolò’s hair gently, “I’m not nearly as good as uncle Sandro – probably not even as good as Riccardo there – but I might still offer you an admirable challenge.”  
  
Niccolò’s eyes are shining with excitement as he tugs Andrea along with him to the yard, a small grassy clearing between the vegetable and flower patches in the garden.  
  
Angela darts towards Andrea as soon as she notices him, suddenly determined to take part in the playful game of football with her brother. Only Riccardo hangs back, meeting Andrea’s eyes reluctantly.  
  
“You don’t mind, do you?” Andrea asks him – obviously he does not need Riccardo’s permission, they are his kids after all, but he feels like it is the polite thing to do after their relationship got off on the wrong foot – “You could take a break if you like. Work must be hard for you, now that Niccolò’s summer break started.”  
  
“No, Ricky’s playing too! Right, Ricky?” Niccolò intervenes before Riccardo can answer, looking hopefully at Riccardo, completely unaware of the uncomfortable tension between his father and the babysitter.  
  
“Yeah, why not?” Riccardo responds with a tight smile, “It’s not like I’ve got anything to do here when I’m not working.”  
  
So they spend the afternoon kicking the small yellow ball, trying 2-vs-2 at first – most of the time they let the kids do the actual playing – but then move to spot kicks because Angela does not quite get the rules yet.  
  
For a while, Andrea actually forgets the awkwardness between him and Riccardo, forgets even the book and his new heroine that is like a feminine mirror image of the babysitter.  
  
Andrea does not notice the passage of time before Deborah’s car pulls in through the gates.  
  
“Go on, go greet you mom,” Andrea urges the kids along, taking a hold of Riccardo’s arm when he makes a move to follow them, probably worried Deborah might think he has left the children alone.  
  
“Can I have a quick word? Don’t worry, I’m not gonna come on to you.”  
  
Riccardo bites his lip hesitantly, but stops nonetheless, taking a step back to create more space between them, looking at Andrea expectantly.  
  
“I feel really bad for what happened back then, in the kitchen,” Andrea starts, wondering idly how he can feel so helpless with his words when the words are what make him a living, “You— reminded me of this new character I’m working on, and I just kind of forgot myself. I shouldn’t have said anything.”  
  
“It’s okay,” Riccardo says quickly, but if there is one thing Andrea is good at, it is reading other people.  
  
“It wasn’t okay,” Andrea counters quickly, glancing towards the garage to make sure Deborah is not out yet, “I invaded your personal space and your privacy, asking those questions. It was inexcusable, and I’m sorry about it.”  
  
Riccardo’s arms are crossed over his chest, his hands gripping his biceps like hugging himself. He opens his mouth a couple of times as if to say something, but closes it again quickly.  
  
“Okay, I forgive you,” he finally settles on, although it is obvious there is much more he wants to say. However, the smile he flashes at Andrea is much more genuine, more relaxed, than any of his previous ones, so Andrea thinks they are alright for now.  
  
“Great,” Andrea returns the smile and reaches out to touch Riccardo’s arm casually, only to retract his hand before actually touching the skin, remembering that it was what got him in this mess in the first place, “We should probably go inside, the dinner should be served soon.”  
  
“That character,” Riccardo says softly as they walk towards the front door where Deborah is waiting for them with the kids, “The one you’re working on. What’s he like?”  
  
“That, you’ll have to wait and read for yourself,” Andrea sidesteps the question carefully.  
  
He really hopes Riccardo will never actually read the book, because explaining Nina to him might prove to be more difficult than apologizing for that one careless slip-up.  
  
  
  
Riccardo is massively fucked.  
  
Well, technically he is  _not_  fucked, and preferably will not be either, not if he likes to keep his job. He is not actually that optimistic about his work prospects in general, but getting fucked would definitely not help the situation.  
  
It all started with that stupid fluttering of his heart whenever he made an eye contact with Andrea, long before Andrea made the effort to fix the awkward situation between them.  
  
Making a fresh start definitely did not help either, because at least when Andrea was deliberately avoiding him, Riccardo could pretend the odd feelings of anxiousness and shyness had been because he did not want Andrea close.  
  
Feeling uncomfortable around Andrea was definitely better option than being  _attracted_  to him.  
  
Riccardo does his best to ignore the unwarranted feelings, focusing on his work the best he can, taking the children out for walks, meeting other kids and their parents in the park and at the nearby lake.  
  
Most of the parents recognize Niccolò and Angela, having met them with Deborah before, so Riccardo is usually saved from explaining that no, he is not the father. Only once has he overheard a whispered conversation regarding his young age and  _”teenage parents today, really.”_  
  
Back at the mansion, avoiding Andrea is getting harder by the day. While he is still barricaded inside his study most of the time, busy with the manuscript, he is obviously making an effort to spend more time with his kids now, much to his wife’s delight.  
  
Except Riccardo is not quite sure it is just because of the children, because the way Andrea is looking at him cannot be normal – he is studying Riccardo, reading his every movement, every expression, not even bothering to look away when Riccardo meets his piercing gaze.  
  
Andrea might not be openly flirting with him, but he definitely is not hiding his interest either, and Riccardo has no idea what he is supposed to do about it.  
  
Riccardo has assured himself time and time again that he is reading too much into it – his infatuated mind imagining attraction where there cannot be any – but it makes no difference when Andrea’s dark eyes are back on him when Riccardo eats dinner together with the family.  
  
Riccardo has to excuse himself from the table early, giving some idle excuse before slipping out of the house, hiding in the darkening garden as the sun sinks behind the horizon, momentarily lighting the sky up in reds and yellows.  
  
When Riccardo finally makes his way back towards his room, passing by the open living room window, he can hear Andrea and Deborah talking inside. No, not talking: arguing.  
  
Riccardo is stuck in place, sick curiosity taking a hold of him.  
  
“You know what they’re saying about you, don’t you?” Deborah’s voice is sharp, accusing, like she knows this is more than just hearsay, “That you’ve found a new muse – that I’m not good enough for you anymore – that you’re basing the new book on her.”  
  
“They’re just gossiping, Deb,” Andrea’s soft voice is too quiet for Riccardo to pick up anything else he is saying.  
  
“I’m not being silly!” Deborah retorts heatedly, and her voice is loud and clear through the window, “Don’t think I haven’t noticed how you’ve changed. You barely even touch me anymore, Andrea. We don’t even sleep in the same bed most of the nights!”  
  
“I just don’t wanna bother your sleep. It’s the book, it’s been keeping me up lately,” Andrea’s voice is moving closer to the window, and Riccardo steps out of the view, hiding behind the vines growing against the wall, “It doesn’t mean I’m cheating on you, Deb.”  
  
“Then let me read the manuscript,” Deborah demands, her voice following Andrea’s, “Everyone keeps saying it’s different from all the others. That it’s more personal.”  
  
“No,” Andrea snaps, too fast, not even considering the request, “What ‘everyone’? What do they know? No one’s even read it yet, only the people from the publisher!”  
  
“If there’s nothing in there, why couldn’t I take a look?”  
  
“Because it’s not finished! I never show my unfinished works to people unless I have to. And I’m not changing my principles just because you’re being jealous for no reason,” Andrea’s voice is frosty, the matter obviously not up for discussion.  
  
“Who is it?” Deborah snaps back, making her own conclusions from Andrea’s words, “It’s that wench from the golf club, isn’t it? She’s always had her eyes on you.”  
  
“There’s no one else!” Andrea huffs back, his voice laced with frustration now, “I haven’t even  _been_  to the golf club in ages! I’m too busy with work!”  
  
There is a child’s voice from inside the room – Niccolò’s, Riccardo recognizes belatedly – asking why his parents are yelling, and that is the end of the argument, at least for now.  
  
Riccardo slips away from his hiding place and returns to his room, making sure to close the door as quietly as possible, afraid someone might notice he had been eavesdropping.  
  
He had known Deborah and Andrea’s marriage was not quite as perfect as the magazines made it out to be – Andrea’s flirting and the staring had been good enough indicators – but that they would argue like that, right where their children could hear them— it had taken Riccardo by surprise.  
  
They should know better, Riccardo’s inner educator pipes in, they should know to keep their problems behind the closed doors, if not for themselves, then at least for Niccolò and Angela’s sake.  
  
But while his worry for the children is genuine, Riccardo cannot focus on that; he cannot keep his thoughts away from that one particular detail in the argument.  
  
Riccardo wonders about this ‘new muse’ and the ‘more personal’ story that Deborah was talking about. Andrea had said it was all made up, but Riccardo remembers the too-long looks, the way Andrea studies him, like trying to understand every last detail.  
  
 _”You reminded me of this new character I’m working on.”_  
  
It cannot be, Riccardo tells himself. Andrea told his wife there is no one else, no new muse, nothing. Riccardo would be flattering himself if he thought for a moment that he could be the cause of the earlier argument.  
  
Riccardo cannot sleep that night, his mind too full of Andrea, Andrea, Andrea, Andrea…  
  
For a second Riccardo wonders if Andrea is lying awake somewhere in the house as well – in the bed next to Deborah or on the couch in his study – but he forces himself to shake away the thought.  
  
Riccardo is so massively fucked.  
  
  
  
Deborah gets a week off from work, and she packs her and the kids’ bags, taking them with her to visit her parents’ summer villa in Tuscany.  
  
“It’s been far too long since they last saw their grandparents,” she explains, but Andrea knows she is only doing this to get away from him, no matter how important the familial ties are for growing children.  
  
Andrea does not complain, because he knows it is for the best: time for Deborah to calm down, and time for him to work on his manuscript without worrying about his family. Time for them both to reflect on the state of their marriage, and hopefully come back stronger.  
  
Time away from Riccardo might be good as well, as the babysitter packs up his own car and prepares for a well-deserved holiday – Andrea has not dared to ask where he is going.  
  
Andrea does not know what happened with Riccardo. When did the initial interest turn into this hopeless infatuation?  
  
He knows the feeling is mutual. It is obvious in the way Riccardo blushes when their eyes meet, the way he shies away even from the most casual touches, the way he looks at Andrea when he thinks he is not paying attention.  
  
Despite his highly advanced people-reading skills, Andrea does not know which one of them is more terrified of the situation: himself or Riccardo.  
  
This is not the first time Andrea has been interested in someone else during his marriage – crushes come and go, and as a writer Andrea is usually highly aware of his own feelings – but it is the first time he knows something could come out of it if he so wished.  
  
Andrea does not  _want_  to cheat on Deborah, despite her constant doubts and jealousy: on the contrary, he wants to prove her wrong, show her that he is the dependable, faithful man she married eight years ago.  
  
But when it comes to Riccardo, Andrea does not know where he stands.  
  
It has nothing to do with Riccardo being a man – Andrea has been aware of his bisexuality since his early teens – and the age difference does not bother him either – Riccardo is a grown man: Deborah was younger than Riccardo is now when they got married, for fuck’s sake!  
  
What really bothers Andrea is his book and how unwilling he is to alter his Nina, despite knowing it will get him in trouble once Deborah actually reads the finished story. The similarities are too obvious; there is no way he can pass it off as a coincidence.  
  
The publishing house is not making things any easier for him, deliberately spreading the rumours about his ‘new muse’ and troubled marriage.  
  
It is all for the publicity: with Andrea’s name on everyone’s lips, even if it is because of a personal scandal, the book is bound to sell well, reaching audiences who would not dream of reading his works in normal circumstances.  
  
“It’s because your style’s changing,” Sandro had told Andrea in a low voice after a meeting with the higher-ups, “They know they can’t keep counting on the teenagers for much longer – they need to reach more mature audiences.”  
  
Andrea feels bad for dragging Deborah into this, a drama created just for the sake of visibility, but he feels even worse because the presumably fake rumours have hit a bit too close to home – he has pulled Riccardo into the picture without even meaning to, risking his job and his reputation in the process.  
  
And the worst part is, even with his regrets and his determination to stay faithful to Deborah, Andrea cannot stop thinking about Riccardo.  
  
It has started raining, just a soft drizzle in the warm summer evening.  
  
Andrea glances out of the window, his writing flow interrupted again, and he is stuck on what he is seeing.  
  
Riccardo is standing outside the house, by his car, one hand ready to close the trunk but not moving, his face turned up to the sky, the rain slowly soaking his clothes and hair. Andrea can almost see the trails of water running down Riccardo’s face even though he knows he is too far to actually see it.  
  
It is a breathtaking sight, like something straight out a painting, and suddenly Andrea cannot stay still – he has to see this up close, has to run his fingers down Riccardo’s wet cheeks.  
  
The rain is getting stronger as Andrea rushes outside, meeting Riccardo halfway to his car.  
  
“You’re beautiful,” Andrea blurts out, and once again he wonders how it is possible that he is making money out of words when obviously he has no control over them whatsoever, “I saw you, out here. And it was the most beautiful sight I’ve ever seen.”  
  
Riccardo’s face is wet, fresh droplets running down his cheeks, a few of them stopping at the corners of his mouth. His blue eyes are reflecting surprise, confusion, even fear.  
  
Andrea reaches out, pressing just his fingertips against the wet skin, caressing Riccardo’s cheek tentatively, his thumb brushing against his lips, almost accidentally.  
  
“You’re so beautiful,” he repeats, his voice a mere whisper, and at that moment Deborah is nothing more than an afterthought, a pestering voice somewhere at the back of his mind.  
  
It is Riccardo who closes the distance between them, slipping his hands into Andrea’s hair and pressing their lips together, the kiss hurried and uncertain, but so full of emotion Andrea cannot pull away even if he knows it would be the right thing to do.  
  
Instead, he meets Riccardo’s mouth, takes a hold of his face with both hands. Andrea is the one to deepen the kiss, slipping his tongue between Riccardo’s parted lips, caressing his tongue with his own.  
  
Riccardo’s body is pressed up against Andrea’s, and Andrea thinks he can almost feel Riccardo’s quickening heartbeat against his own chest, through their wet clothes. Or maybe it is his own pulse, bounding so loudly against his eardrums, practically deafening.  
  
And then it ends as soon as it began, Riccardo pulling away from him forcefully, and the sharp pain on his cheek registers in Andrea’s brain only long after Riccardo has slapped him.  
  
“We can’t,” Riccardo says, eyes full of surprise at his own actions, voice trembling. And then he is gone, fetching his phone and wallet from his room before finally driving away, not sparing Andrea another glance.  
  
Andrea stays there in the rain, stuck in place, until the car is long gone.

 

 

Riccardo cannot stop thinking about Andrea.  
  
He is staying at his friend’s place in Milan, enjoying his momentary freedom: shopping during the days, meeting his old friends from the university, eating out, and then going clubbing during the nights, reliving the days of his student life.  
  
But no matter where he goes, Andrea seems to be there – headlines in the gossip magazines, posters in the bookstores, overheard conversations in the restaurants. He cannot let go even at the nightclubs, his mind flying back to the mansion whenever someone brushes against him in the crowd.  
  
He should resign. It would be the right thing to do: remove himself from the temptation, find a new job, never meet Andrea again. Deborah might be surprised, even angry if he leaves so suddenly, but it would be better than staying and possibly breaking their marriage.  
  
Riccardo builds up his courage, picks up his phone to call Deborah, but then he remembers Andrea’s hands on his face, soft lips on his, and Andrea’s tongue against his own. And he just cannot, he cannot dial the number and make it all go away.  
  
Riccardo returns home one day early –  _home_ , it really is silly how quickly he has learned to call the mansion that, when it is just his workplace – even though Deborah and the children are only returning the next day, so he has no reason to be there.  
  
He just could not take his friend’s worried questions anymore – making sure no one is bothering him this time, no bullying or unwanted advances – feeling guilty for lying that everything is alright, but also painfully aware that this is something he can never tell anyone.  
  
Andrea is home, Riccardo can see the light coming from his study as he parks his car and sneaks inside, leaving his bags in the car, hiding in his room, not even daring to turn on the lights.  
  
He hopes Andrea did not notice his return, but at the same time a small part of him wishes he  _did_ , wishes Andrea would come to his room, kiss him again, touch him, undress him—  
  
Riccardo shakes away the fantasy, reminding himself he has no right to wish for something like that. He has done too much already, just by coming back, and he cannot succumb to the temptation. He is not a home wrecker!  
  
A knock on the door startles Riccardo out of his thoughts –  _shit shit shit shit shit he is not ready to face Andrea yet_  – and he has to force himself to breathe, the sound of his bounding heart so loud he is sure Andrea can hear it from the other side of the door.  
  
Riccardo walks to the door, but he does not open it, just stands in front of it, listening to the sound of Andrea’s pacing on the other side. Obviously he is not the only one feeling nervous.  
  
Finally, after waiting for a full five minutes for Andrea to give up and go away, Riccardo turns the door knob and pushes the door only slightly ajar, reluctantly meeting Andrea’s eyes as the author stops in his tracks the moment the door opens.  
  
The “I’m sorry” comes out of both their lips almost at the same time, a weird stereo sound that makes Riccardo chuckle awkwardly.  
  
“No, don’t apologize. You’re not to blame,” Andrea assures Riccardo softly, holding his gaze resolutely, “I shouldn’t have put you into that situation in the first place.”  
  
Andrea looks so exhausted, heavy bags under his eyes, like he has not slept an eyeful in the past few nights.  
  
“I— I can’t write,” Andrea blurts out before Riccardo can answer him, the look in his eyes helpless, “I usually enjoy being alone, it helps me concentrate. But this time— this time I haven’t been able to write a word, not since you left.”  
  
What is Riccardo supposed to say to that?  
  
He opens the door a bit more, faces Andrea properly, all the while telling himself that he needs to put an end to this, tell Andrea they need to keep away from each other until this – whatever this is – goes away.  
  
“I don’t know what’s happening,” is all Riccardo manages to whisper before Andrea kisses him, hungry and desperate, the press of his lips almost painful on Riccardo’s.  
  
All Riccardo’s willpower flies out of the window just like that, and he returns the kiss with equal fervour, wrapping his arms around Andrea’s neck, sucking on his bottom lip, pressing his tongue into Andrea’s open mouth, tasting whisky and cigarettes on his tongue.  
  
Andrea pushes him back into his room, guiding them towards the bed until it hits the backs of Riccardo’s knees and he falls down on the mattress, involuntarily breaking the kiss.  
  
“We shouldn’t,” Riccardo finds his voice as Andrea climbs on the bed, straddling Riccardo’s thighs, searching his lips for another kiss, “We shouldn’t do this, it’s not right, Deborah might—”  
  
His protests are cut off as Andrea kisses him again, tangling his fingers into Riccardo’s hair, tugging at the messy locks to pull him even closer, and Riccardo cannot do anything but to follow his lead.  
  
Riccardo is so turned on from just the kissing that he cannot even think straight by the time Andrea releases his hold on his hair and slides his hands lower, down his torso and all the way to his hips, pushing his shorts down, cupping his buttocks in his hands, pulling Riccardo’s groin against his.  
  
A muffled whimper escapes Riccardo’s lips when he feels Andrea’s erection pressed against his own, the sound mostly swallowed into the kiss.  
  
“I can’t— please, Andrea, I can’t—” Riccardo has no idea what he is trying to say anymore as Andrea breaks the kiss, latching his lips on Riccardo’s neck instead. Riccardo moans out loud when Andrea moves his own trousers out of the way, taking their bare erections into his hand, the lengths pressed together.  
  
Riccardo is squirming under Andrea, unable to stay still, trying to push his cock into the touch, his fingers clawing on Andrea’s back desperately. He feels overwhelmed by all the sudden sensations, both in his body and his mind.  
  
It is all too much, so he just forces his mind to shut down and allows Andrea to do all the work, stroking their aligned cocks, sucking on Riccardo’s neck, biting down on the skin as he comes, tightening his hold on their cocks and bringing Riccardo over the edge as well, their seed mixing together between their bellies.  
  
“I truly am sorry,” Andrea whispers before pressing another kiss on Riccardo’s lips, just a gentle nibble this time, the earlier hunger all but gone from the touch.  
  
They stay quiet for a long time, and then finally Andrea pulls the covers from under them and collects Riccardo into his arms, slipping between the sheets without saying another word.  
  
Riccardo falls asleep surrounded by that comfortable warmth, Andrea’s fingers threading through his hair the last thing he remembers.  
  
  
  
When Andrea wakes up, it is already bright outside, the sunlight hitting his face from between the only partly drawn curtains. He cannot even remember when was the last time he was able to sleep through the whole night.  
  
He wants to get up, but Riccardo is laying half on top of him, his head rested on Andrea’s shoulder, arm and leg thrown over him, as if afraid he might escape otherwise.  
  
Andrea can feel Riccardo’s steady breathing against his neck, still asleep, and Andrea relaxes under his weight, turning his head just enough to take in the scent of Riccardo’s hair.  
  
Andrea knows he should feel guilty, for cheating on Deborah, for pulling Riccardo deeper into this whole mess, for forgetting his responsibilities as a husband and a father.  
  
But with Riccardo right there in his arms, after a full night’s sleep, he cannot bring himself to feel any remorse. On the contrary, he knows he would have regretted it forever had he not acted on his feelings, no matter how impulsive and stupid they were.  
  
Riccardo lets out a soft grumble as he wakes up, blinking his eyes slowly, looking disoriented as he looks around, before finally focusing his gaze on Andrea.  
  
Suddenly the realization flashes in his eyes and he practically jumps up, recoiling from Andrea, almost falling off the bed as he tries to put as much distance between them as possible.  
  
They are still wearing the clothes from the previous night, their pants pulled back up, but the cum stains visible on the hems of their shirts.  
  
“Shit,” Riccardo says out loud, staring into Andrea’s eyes, and Andrea thinks that one word might sum up the whole situation much better than pages and pages of dialogue could, “Shit shit shit. We’re so fucked. Shit!”  
  
Andrea reaches out to take a hold of Riccardo’s hand, refusing to let go even as Riccardo tries to pull away, stroking his thumb over Riccardo’s knuckles soothingly, “It happened, Riccardo. We can’t take it back.”  
  
Andrea does not dare to tell him that he does not want to take it back either – that he would do it over and over again no matter how many chances they were given – because Riccardo’s distress is real and he does not want to belittle it in any way.  
  
“But, what about Deborah? What if she finds out?” Riccardo’s eyes dart towards the window, like afraid Deborah might be back already, “I should’ve never come back. I should’ve just—”  
  
Andrea cuts his babbling by pulling him into a chaste kiss, keeping his lips pressed softly against Riccardo’s until he can feel him relaxing into the kiss.  
  
“It’s too late for that now. We just have to deal with the consequences,” he says against Riccardo’s lips, keeping his voice steady even as inwardly he is freaking out just as much as Riccardo, “She won’t find out, not unless you tell her. You wouldn’t do that, right?”  
  
Andrea feels like a total scum for making Riccardo do this. Riccardo is young and beautiful, someone who should never have to hide his feelings from the world. He is too good to be the dirty little secret of an old washed-up novelist like Andrea.  
  
But what else he can do? He cannot risk a divorce, not when the kids are so young, and especially not before his next book is out. A scandal of that magnitude would mean the end of his career.  
  
On the other hand, Andrea is not sure he could even finish the novel if Riccardo quit his job and left the house completely. The last week had been enough of a proof for that – this story, it is all about Riccardo, all about Andrea’s feelings for him, completely dependent on his presence.  
  
Which is why Andrea wraps his arms around Riccardo’s waist and pulls him into his lap, kissing the quiet protests from his lips, trying to convey his feelings through the actions instead of words.  
  
“This’ll be our secret, okay?” Andrea whispers to Riccardo, sliding his hands down to his thighs, caressing the skin under his shorts, “Can you do this for me, Riccardo?”  
  
Riccardo is biting his lower lip when he meets Andrea’s eyes hesitantly, but he nods just enough for Andrea to catch the movement.  
  
“Good,” Andrea breathes out, pressing one more kiss on Riccardo’s lips, before pulling off his t-shirt and pushing him down on his back, trailing kisses down his torso, sucking on both his nipples, dipping his tongue into his navel gently.  
  
Riccardo is breathing deeply, his eyes closed and hands resting on either side of his head, not even attempting to touch Andrea. He lets out a soft whine when Andrea pushes down his shorts and underwear, exposing his already hard cock.  
  
“Let me hear you,” Andrea tells him, ghosting his lips over the tip, blowing softly on the sensitive flesh, which draws a sharp gasp from Riccardo, “Your voice is beautiful, please don’t hide it from me.”  
  
Andrea licks the tip carefully, tasting the precome, and Riccardo moans softly, jerking his hips upwards, silently begging for more contact.  
  
Andrea wraps his fingers around Riccardo’s length upon the request, stroking him slowly as he takes the tip into his mouth, sucking on it while his tongue circles around the heated flesh.  
  
“Harder,” Riccardo gasps out, his hands finally finding their way into Andrea’s hair, “Please, Andrea, I can’t take it.”  
  
Andrea hums his understanding around his cock, tightening his hold on the length, picking up the speed of his strokes, taking Riccardo a bit deeper into his mouth, careful not to choke around him as Riccardo bucks his hips up with a louder moan.  
  
He has slipped his other hand into his own trousers, stroking his cock in rhythm with Riccardo’s, enjoying the sounds Riccardo is making and his taste on his tongue, pushing himself quickly towards an orgasm.  
  
“I’m gonna come,” Riccardo warns him, his voice breathless and high-pitched, and then in the next moment he is coming into Andrea’s mouth, his last moans coming out as muffled sobs.  
  
Andrea swallows the seed before pulling his mouth away from Riccardo’s softening cock just as his own release washes over him, his sperm seeping over his hand and into his boxers.  
  
Riccardo stays like that, lying on his back without a shirt and his shorts pulled down to his thighs, catching his breath for a long time. He is beautiful like this, Andrea thinks as he studies him, and he knows he will be able to continue writing today.  
  
A sound of car engine from outside pulls them back to reality, and Riccardo stumbles out of the bed, almost falling down, trying to find presentable clothes from his drawer.  
  
“You better get out now,” Riccardo mumbles without looking at Andrea, “Get back into your study before she sees you.”  
  
  
  
Riccardo honestly does not know how it happened.  
  
First he had been determined to keep his distance from Andrea, then that first night happened and Riccardo had been fully prepared to treat it like a one time mistake, something that would and should not be repeated.  
  
He had been ready to count the next morning as a part of the same mistake, something that happened in the heat of the moment – they were horny and they were in the same bed, so it was only natural to act on it, right?  
  
But then, only a few nights later, Andrea had sneaked into his room again, long after Deborah had retired to bed. Riccardo had still been awake, though, too wrapped up in the sudden developments in his love life.  
  
That second night, Andrea had only stayed for a while, kissing Riccardo senseless, giving him another blowjob and letting Riccardo return the favour, before leaving and going back to his own bed.  
  
Riccardo had stayed up half the night afterwards, thinking about Andrea sleeping next to his wife, uselessly telling himself he was not allowed to feel jealous, because he was the one in the wrong here.  
  
The third night, Andrea had fucked him, taking his sweet time, making sure he was not hurting Riccardo, whispering gentle words of love, need, affection into Riccardo’s ear, telling him he had never felt like this with anyone before – not even Deborah.  
  
Andrea had stayed with him that night, sleeping peacefully with his arms wound around Riccardo, only slipping out of the room when Riccardo’s alarm clock woke them up in the morning.  
  
All the visits after that – irregular as they may be – have followed the same pattern.  
  
Andrea keeps telling Riccardo Deborah will not notice a thing because he spends most of his nights in his study anyways, but it is not what bothers Riccardo, not really.  
  
Riccardo feels guilty, because he knows that no matter what Andrea says about his marriage, Riccardo is still the one pulling him further away from Deborah. He knows he should put an end to it – save what is left to be saved – but the closer he gets, the harder it becomes to let go.  
  
“I’m in love with you,” Riccardo whispers to Andrea as they sit on the park bench together, watching over Niccolò and Angela playing with other children. He is keeping his voice low enough that only Andrea can hear him, glancing around to make sure there is no one near enough to listen in to their conversation.  
  
Andrea does not reply in words, only brushes his hand against Riccardo’s on the bench: the only sign of affection they can afford outside the safety of Riccardo’s room. They are taking a huge risk even now, with Andrea joining Riccardo and the kids for their afternoon walk.  
  
Andrea has said those words so many times before, whispered them to Riccardo during their most intimate moments, but this time it is different, because Riccardo is acknowledging their affair on a completely different level.  
  
This is not physical, this is emotional; Riccardo is laying his heart out for Andrea to see.  
  
Andrea does not say a word, and Riccardo lets out an audible sigh, standing up and calling for the kids to finish up their games so they can go home.  
  
They are almost back at the house – Niccolò and Angela skipping ahead of them happily, never running out of energy – before Andrea dares to say anything.  
  
“Can you wait a little longer?” he asks quietly, taking a hold of Riccardo’s hand and intertwining their fingers gently, “I want to be with you.  _Really_  be with you. But I can’t do it now, not before the book’s out, at least.”  
  
The book. Always the book. It was the book that started it all, and it is the book that now keeps them together and apart at the same time.  
  
Sometimes Riccardo fears Andrea is going to forget him once the book is finished, when he has no need for Riccardo anymore.  
  
It is during those lonely nights when Andrea is with Deborah that Riccardo wonders if he is just some kind of an experiment for Andrea: a way to live out the worlds of his books, to find out how the feelings develop, how the deepening emotions change their interactions.  
  
“I promise you, Riccardo. I promise it’ll get better when the book’s out.”  
  
Riccardo offers a tense smile, squeezing Andrea’s hand softly before letting go as the kids run back to them, telling them to walk faster.  
  
Andrea’s promises are all he has for now, and he cannot do anything but wait, because every single thing he gets is more than he actually deserves.  
  
  
  
Riccardo is sitting on the edge of Angela’s bed, his back rested against the wall and the book – _Sleeping Beauty_ – almost falling from his hands. Angela’s small plastic tiara on his head looks almost too cute for words.  
  
Both Riccardo and Angela are fast asleep, Andrea’s own sleeping beauties, and Andrea would feel bad for waking Riccardo up were it not for a good cause.  
  
He leans down to press a gentle kiss on his daughter’s forehead before turning to Riccardo, brushing his lips against his ear, “Wake up, Riccardo. I have something I want to show you.”  
  
Riccardo huffs softly as he rouses from his slumber, blinking his eyes a few times before realizing where he is. He removes the tiara from his hair and sets it on the floor next to Angela’s bed before following Andrea out of the room.  
  
“You should’ve kept it on,” Andrea tells him with a smile as he leads Riccardo towards his study, “It suited you. My little princess.”  
  
“Wouldn’t wanna steal the title from Angela,” Riccardo retorts lazily, obviously still coming out of his earlier nap, “You know she’s getting jealous with how much attention you’ve been giving me lately?”  
  
Andrea cannot resist the temptation anymore and he pulls Riccardo into a long kiss right there in the corridor.  
  
They have had more time for each other since the summer break ended and Niccolò started school – leaving Riccardo free during Angela’s naptimes – but they are still usually more careful than this, well aware that one slip-up is all they need to ruin everything.  
  
However, today Andrea doubts anything could ruin his mood.  
  
“It’s finished,” he tells Riccardo with an excited smile once they break the kiss, pulling him by the hand the rest of the way to the study, “The manuscript, I finished it last night. And I want you to be the first to read it.”  
  
Andrea picks up the file with the printed manuscript from the table and hands it to Riccardo, who is eyeing it suspiciously, like he cannot believe Andrea is telling the truth.  
  
“It still needs a lot of work before it’ll be ready to be published,” Andrea explains as Riccardo finally accepts the offered file, “But the hardest part is over now. After this it’ll be just polishing the details with Sandro and the publisher.”  
  
“Is it really okay for me to read this?” Riccardo asks softly, looking up from the front page, meeting Andrea’s eyes, “What about Deborah? Shouldn’t you show this to her?”  
  
“No, I wrote it for you,” Andrea retorts simply, reaching out to cover Riccardo’s hands with his own, “This is the first time I actually feel proud of what I’ve written, and I couldn’t have done it if it wasn’t for you.”  
  
The file falls from Riccardo’s hands as Andrea kisses him, pushing him backwards until he is pressed against the wall. He is scrabbling to open Riccardo’s belt, pulling his jeans down to his thighs, grabbing Riccardo’s ass with both hands through his boxers.  
  
“Stop it, Angela might wake up anytime now,” Riccardo protests weakly, but Andrea can feel his cock hardening between their bodies, and he does not even try to resist when Andrea catches his lips into another open-mouthed kiss.  
  
“We’ll just have to be quick, then,” Andrea tells Riccardo, his voice hitching in his throat, “Turn around.”  
  
Riccardo follows the order without complaint, pressing his upper body against the wall, arching his back slightly to offer his ass for Andrea’s exploring touches, letting him push the boxers down to reveal the beautiful buttocks.  
  
Andrea has missed this, too busy with his writing lately to keep up with his nightly visits to Riccardo’s room. But not anymore, now he is done, his manuscript ready to be sent out.  
  
Ironically, things have also taken a turn for the better with Deborah, his wife finally willing to forget the nasty rumours about him, so Andrea has been forced to sleep in their bed when the place he really wanted to be was on the other side of the house.  
  
“I missed you, Riccardo,” he whispers into Riccardo’s hair as he slips the first slicked finger through his entrance, forcing himself not to speed up the preparation even if the only thing he wants right now is to be inside Riccardo.  
  
“But I’m right here,” Riccardo replies, pressing back against Andrea’s hand, whining softly when Andrea adds another finger along with more lube, “I’m always right here.”  
  
“As you should be,” Andrea’s words are mumbled against the juncture between Riccardo’s shoulder and neck as he drops hungry kisses on the unblemished skin, leaving his mark there even though he knows Riccardo will have to be careful to hide it for the next few days.  
  
Andrea’s hands are trembling with suppressed arousal when he finally rolls a condom over his straining erection and takes a firm hold on Riccardo’s hips, positioning himself against his entrance after rubbing some more lube over his cock.  
  
Andrea pushes in slowly and Riccardo cries out at the intrusion, unsuccessfully trying to muffle his voice by biting the back of his hand, his insides clenching around Andrea’s cock too tightly.  
  
It cannot be comfortable, but Riccardo reaches a hand behind him, grabbing Andrea’s wrist desperately, and hisses sharply, “Move! I wanna feel it.”  
  
Andrea can do nothing but obey the command, pushing himself all the way in before snapping his hips back and repeating the movement, harder this time. Riccardo feels incredible around him, a tight heat responding to his every thrust.  
  
Riccardo’s muffled whimpers sound even more beautiful than before, intoxicating in their spontaneity. Andrea has to hide his own groan against Riccardo’s neck, sucking on the soft skin below his ear, picking up his pace as he gets close, so close.  
  
The sound of the door opening registers in his brain belatedly, and it is actually Riccardo’s body freezing against his that forces him to stop more than Deborah’s shocked voice from behind him, “Andrea?”  
  
Riccardo turns around quickly, Andrea’s cock slipping out of him, and pushes Andrea away from him forcefully, scrabbling to pull up his boxers and jeans, half-hiding from Deborah’s astonished gaze behind Andrea’s back.  
  
“I— I heard from Sandro your manuscript was ready, so I thought I’d surprise you,” Deborah sounds stunned, like still trying to process what she is seeing. There is a bottle of wine in her hand, a good vintage from their own vineyard, “I thought— What the hell is happening here?”  
  
“It’s not what it looks like?” Andrea tries helplessly, finally coming to his senses and pulling up his trousers to cover his still obvious erection, not even bothering to remove the condom.  
  
“What’s it supposed to look like, then?” Deborah’s voice is ice cold, “What’s it supposed to look like when I come home early and find you fucking our babysitter? Tell me, Andrea, what the fuck am I supposed to think about it?”  
  
Andrea can see Riccardo flinching every time Deborah raises her voice, and he turns to touch his arm gently, “Go check on Angela, will you? It’s my fault, let me handle this.”  
  
“He’s not going anywhere near my daughter!” Deborah snaps before Riccardo can say anything, her eyes now fixed on Riccardo, the calm façade slipping into full rage, “You’re fired! Get out of my house! Don’t you dare to come anywhere near my family ever again!”  
  
“Deb, calm down. It wasn’t his fault, it was all mine,” Andrea tries to reason with her. But where is the reason when they were the ones betraying her trust?  
  
“Don’t you tell me what to do!” Deborah hisses, and Andrea is actually surprised she has not thrown the wine bottle at him by now, “He seemed to be enjoying it just fine. I trusted him with my children, and all this time he was only after your cock!”  
  
“That’s not true!” Andrea snaps back, but Riccardo interrupts him before he can get any further, pressing a calming hand on his shoulder.  
  
“I’m going, okay?” he tells Andrea softly, before walking over to Deborah, meeting her eyes reluctantly, “Thank you for giving me a chance. I’m sorry it turned out this way.”  
  
“Get out,” Deborah tells him simply, and Riccardo leaves without saying another word, not even daring to glance at Andrea before walking away.  
  
Andrea has never wanted to do anything as much as he wants to run after Riccardo at that very moment.  
  
  
  
 _For my very own Nina, who makes my life better just by existing. I’m sorry. I love you._  
  
Riccardo stares at the hand-written words on top of the crumbled manuscript that he just pulled out of the manila envelope delivered straight to his door.  
  
He has no idea how Andrea knew where to find him after all this time, because he had only given his parents’ address to Deborah when he first applied for the job, and there is no way Andrea would know his new address in Milan.  
  
But the manuscript in his hands is telling a different story – it is saying Andrea knows where he is; it is saying Andrea still cares enough to send him the manuscript he never had a chance to read.  
  
It is too late now, though, because Andrea’s new novel is already in the bookshops, fresh from the press, and everyone and their mother is talking about how good it is. What use is an old manuscript now, when the real thing is out there for everyone to read?  
  
 _—who makes my life better just by existing. I’m sorry. I love you._  
  
Riccardo feels like crying, because what use is love when it has been months since they even saw each other? What is love when Andrea is still married to Deborah, all the gossip about their marriage being in a crisis having died out after the book finally came out?  
  
 _I’m sorry. I love you._  
  
“I love you too,” Riccardo whispers into the empty apartment, tears falling down his cheeks against his will. The manuscript crumbles in his hands as he sits down, trying to muffle his sobs into his too long sweater sleeve.  
  
  
  
Andrea is  _bored_.  
  
It is not that he does not appreciate the fans, especially when they have taken the time to actually come and meet him at the small bookstore hidden in a side alley just off the downtown Milan.  
  
The whole event was organized without big advertising, depending on hearsay and fan communities – give them something private, make them bond over the experience, his agent had said – so Andrea is actually surprised with how many people have showed up.  
  
Nevertheless, he is bored out of his mind, the old routine really getting on his nerves: sign the book, exchange a couple of words, maybe take a picture together, rinse and repeat.  
  
No matter how many times he does the marketing for a new book, he will never find it exciting.  
  
He has his pen ready for the next autograph, but instead of the newly purchased book he was expecting, he is faced with a crumbled and water stained pile of paper that seems vaguely familiar.  
  
“You know, writing a dedication and then forgetting to sign it is really fucking impolite.”  
  
Andrea’s head snaps up at the familiar voice, his heart leaping in his chest as he meets those beautiful, beautiful light blue eyes.  
  
He had thought he would never see Riccardo again, and now he is here, standing right in front of Andrea, his hair pulled up in a small bun and his thick woollen scarf wrapped around his neck one too many times.  
  
“Then again, so is fucking someone and then not calling even once, so I’m not really that surprised,” Riccardo continues, his voice sullen and lips pursed in an annoyed pout, “Just wanted to return this. I don’t need it. Happy Christmas, Andrea.”  
  
Andrea stares down at the manuscript, stunned, as Riccardo turns on his heels and walks away.  
  
It is the original manuscript he had given to Riccardo when he first finished it, just before Deborah walked in on them. Deborah had tried to throw it away, but Sandro had salvaged it from the trash, declaring he was going to return it to its rightful owner.  
  
Andrea had forgotten all about it, and Sandro never brought up the topic again, but apparently he had really delivered it to Riccardo.  
  
Andrea turns the cover page carefully, the next page even more blotched – are those tear stains – his dedication words just barely readable. He had written it right after printing the pages: a love confession, an apology, a wordless promise of a better future.  
  
There is another line of text underneath the dedication, the hand-writing so small Andrea almost misses it:  _But Nina got her man._  
  
Andrea jumps up so quickly he pushes the chair over, looking over the heads of the crowd, trying to make out Riccardo’s tall frame among his mainly female audience.  
  
“Sorry, I’ve got something I need to do,” he tells his agent quickly as he pushes past him, making his way through the shop, ignoring the fans that are trying to talk to him, ask him where he is going, taking pictures with their camera phones.  
  
He does not care if every single household in Italy knows about his and Deborah’s separation by tomorrow morning – they have hidden it for far too long already – all he cares about is finding Riccardo before he disappears from his life for good.  
  
The alley is empty, but Andrea takes a wild guess, dashing towards the main street, looking frantically to both directions, trying to locate the man among the masses of people doing their Christmas shopping.  
  
“Riccardo!” he yells desperately, hoping that maybe Riccardo will hear him and come back, but all he attracts is a few odd looks from the passersby. Andrea curses loudly, kicking the ground angrily, because this was his one chance, and he blew it.  
  
“You’re causing a scene, Andrea,” a soft voice from behind him, and Andrea spins around so fast he almost loses his footing on the icy paving.  
  
“You read it,” Andrea says in a low voice, meeting Riccardo’s confused eyes, not even trying to hide hopefulness from his voice, “After all this time. You still read it.”  
  
Riccardo bites his lip hesitantly, his eyes darting to the people around them: some of Andrea’s fans from the bookstore have already followed them outside.  
  
“Of course I read it. You wrote it for me.”  
  
“Damn right I did,” Andrea replies, practically itching to touch Riccardo, his reputation be damned – Riccardo is too close, and it has been too long – “I thought you wouldn’t have me anymore, after what happened.”  
  
“You’re still married,” Riccardo retorts, and to Andrea’s horror there are tears gathering in his eyes, refusing to fall down his face, “I’m not having you like that. It’s too painful. I don’t want that.”  
  
“Good thing I’m not offering you that, then,” Andrea says, reaching his hand to wipe away the wetness from Riccardo’s eyes, “It’ll be just you and me this time. I promised you it’d get better once the book was out, didn’t I?”  
  
Riccardo’s lower lip is trembling with suppressed sobs, and now he cannot keep the tears from falling anymore, Andrea’s poor attempts at wiping them away making no difference.  
  
“Let’s go inside,” Andrea suggests quietly, wrapping his arm around Riccardo’s shoulders and pulling him along to take him back to the bookstore, “They’ve got a nice little backroom in there. Let’s talk. There’s no hurry, I’ve got you now.”  
  
They will do things right this time. This time Andrea will give Riccardo everything he deserves, everything he should have given him from the start. Because Riccardo is too good to be his dirty little secret, always has been.  
  
Riccardo is his, but more importantly, Andrea is Riccardo’s.  
  
And that is the only truth that matters right now.  
  
  
  
 _For Riccardo, the light of my life and the one who keeps me writing.  
I’m sorry for making you wait._

**Author's Note:**

> \- In my head, Andrea's books are somewhere along the lines of Twilight, Mortal Instruments, and The Southern Vampire Mysteries (True Blood), none of which I've conveniently read myself. My headcanon is that Andrea read some popular book like that and told Sandro he could do much better, who then dared him to actually write one, knowing full well that Andrea could never back down from a challenge. And that's the story how Andrea ended up writing ~~softcore porn for teenagers~~ romantic horror fantasy with an erotic undertone.  
>  \- As far as I know, Italian kids go to first grade at six years of age. Before that there is a non-compulsory preschool for 3-6-year-olds. I don't know how this system actually works, so I'm just assuming Niccolò stayed home with his mother first and was put into preschool fairly late so he would learn interaction with other kids and the school life before actually starting primary school. I'm guessing the plan was same for Angela: let her grow in the safe environment of home first and then go to preschool when she turns 4 or so. (Italians and others familiar with the system, feel free to correct me!)  
> \- To become a preschool teacher, you need to finish a 4-year Bachelor's Degree program at the university, and Riccardo was probably lucky to get a job right after graduation. I'm not saying the working environment at nursery schools are even close to that described here - I've worked at a daycare center myself, and I've never encountered any problems - but we all know sexism and sexual harassment can go both ways, and it's never okay. Never.  
> \- Lastly, as someone who's both cheated and been cheated on (I've even been in a situation where someone wanted to cheat on their spouse with me, though fortunately nothing came out of it): cheating is stupid, hurtful, and unnecessary! If you're in an exclusive monogamous relationship (which is of course not always the case), you should have no reason to cheat on your significant other. Yes, crushes and attractions do happen, but if you're ready to risk your relationship for something like that, then you should have the decency to end that relationship first. Relationships are about compromises and common rules, and if you can't be bothered to follow those rules, you don't deserve to be in a relationship. But that's just my opinion. /rant over
> 
> Feedback would be much appreciated!


End file.
